Use Your Fist Not Your Mouth
by transemacabre
Summary: Originally written for the Hetalia Kink Meme. An alternate take on the notorious Financial Crisis Gangbang. In the original Financial Crisis Gangbang, England and France agreed to rape America - but what if they didn't? Darkfic, WARNING for violence, attempted rape, disturbing themes.


**Use Your Fist Not Your Mouth**

_A quick note on this fic: I originally wrote this fic in 2010, for the Hetalia Kink Meme, in response to the infamous 'Financial Crisis Gangbang' work. In the FCGB, America is tied up and raped by most of the main cast in retribution for the meltdown of the global economy. You might call FCGB a "fandom-breaker"; a lot of fans found it repugnant, others found it titillating, and it spawned its own subgenre, many of them revenge fantasies or continuations on the FCGB theme. Then someone requested the following on the Kink Meme:_

anon wants to see daddy!england and papa!france, not as a couple, just as them being america's closest parental units and FLIPPING A SCARY SHIT at everyone for even considering it, and being all, "if you touch america i swear i will mutilate you in ways you NEVER KNEW WERE POSSIBLE."

_Yours truly was happy to oblige. Considering the subject matter, and the trope it was written in response to, this fic comfortably falls under the definition of darkfic. It contains themes, language, and violence that some may find disturbing. Russia, Germany, Japan, Italy, and Prussia's characterizations are likewise extreme. I would not ordinarily characterize any of them in such a manner._

* * *

France lounged back in his chair and smirked. "Rape. How gauche."

Germany cleared his throat, looking for all the world like a disgruntled bureaucrat and not one of the masterminds of a plot to gang-rape of their own. "This is not a joke," he said, as though anyone could mistake what he suggested as amusing. "We have almost unanimous agreement that America should be soundly punished for what he has done."

"We must send a message," said Russia in that sing-song voice of his that made France's skin crawl.

"Almost unanimous," cut in England. "There were two nay votes."

"Yeah, well, you two ain't exactly unbiased," said Prussia. His red eyes gleamed. "He's your brat after all."

"Our brat," France said softly. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, and smiling at his old friend. "Our brother. Our child, in a way. Our responsibility. I could no more vote to 'punish' America than I could cut out my own heart."

England nodded in agreement.

"You've been outvoted," Japan pointed out. He seemed very serene for a man who had eagerly cast his vote to humiliate and violate America, who admired him so and fanboyed his anime and his ninja and his geisha and bought his cars and technology. "Your opinion is now irrelevant, France-san."

"Kiku," England said very seriously, "don't make me do something you're going to regret."

Russia's giggle seemed to fill the room. "Oh, is England going to stop us?" Russia mocked him. "The little island is going to pull his flintlocks out of the mothballs! And you France, you're going to join him if you can pry yourself away from your wine bottle!"

France's immaculately manicured nails drummed on the table. He looked at these faces, the faces he had known for centuries, the faces he had called friend and lover and brother and enemy. They looked back at him as though they knew him, as though they could look right into the deep, dark, secret part of him. France was a lush and an aesthete and something of a slut; he loved love, and lust, and it was true that when one said "No" to him, he heard "Not yet." But his lovers came to him; they came eagerly or they came blushing and trembling, but they came willingly. He was not Prussia, with his endless hunger and his toothy smile, who devoured everything before him like a wolf. He was not Russia, who stole and broke and took because that which was given freely was surely of no worth, da?

"Russia," he said, "if you lay a hand on him, you forfeit that hand."

"Is comrade France threatening me?" Russia asked, his wide smile dimpling his cheeks.

"I am not threatening you, Ivan. I am promising you."

From across the table, England locked eyes with France. England knew that he had not always been a good man, and that he was not entirely a good man even now, long after the end of his empire. And yet he shook with rage at the thought of America being hurt, of any of his innocence being stolen from him. He thought of Canada and America as babies, as alike as two pearls, their fates and lives in his hands. He loved them as purely as he was capable of, the love of the dying for the living, and he knew that he could not stand by and see either of them harmed. "I once held a rifle on America," said England. "I was going to kill him. And he was dearer to me than my own life. Think, all of you bastards, what I will do to you, who I do not love."

* * *

"Do you believe they will attack him?" France asked England after the meeting was over.

"I think they'll try." England sat slumped against a wall, his tie undone, dialing his cell. "America?" he asked.

"_Yeah? Hey, England!_"

"Listen," England said, sending a significant look to France. "I need you to lay low for awhile. Call your brother and tell him to stay with you for a few days. France and I are going to come over to your hotel and explain everything."

"_What are you talking about? What's going on-"_

The phone went dead. England's blood ran cold in his veins. He knew inherently that America had not hung up on him. "Someone's already got to him," he said, standing up. "We may already be too late."

"No." France's lips were set in a grim line. "We will not be. I won't let us be!"

They didn't bother going to America's house. Instead, France and England went directly to Prussia's hotel, where they found Prussia getting into his car in the parking lot. England ran to stand in front of the car, blocking Prussia's way with his body.

"Where did you wankers take him?!"

Prussia sneered at him from inside the car. "Get out of my way, Artie. Or I'll gun the engine and we'll see how immortal you really are."

France kicked through the car window, putting his boot solidly into the side of Prussia's head. "I'm through with diplomacy, old friend," France told him, dragging him through the car window, dragging him over broken glass, ignoring his curses and shrieks. "You talk now or I'll take out my frustration on your hide."

"You won't get a goddamn thing out of me," Prussia snarled defiantly into his face.

France reached way back with his right fist, all the way to Verdun and Calais and brought it back with the force of several thousand miles of pure rage and anger. England imagined he heard a sonic boom as France's fist made contact with Prussia's face. Prussia made a wet sucking sound as he lifted his face from the imprint it left in the car hood. He tried to speak, but spat blood instead.

France grabbed Prussia by his ears, wrenching him forward so that their eyes were level. "I'll kill you, old friend. Look at me and tell me if I'm telling the truth."

Prussia cringed, but he weakly pointed to a pad of paper and motioned for a pen. When England produced one out of his pocket, Prussia wrote an address on it. "You're being so cooperative," France purred as he shoved Prussia into the back seat of his car. "But you're coming with us, and if you've given us a fake address and made us waste precious time, then _you_ will find out how immortal you are."

Even as they raced out onto the highway, tires squealing and the smell of burning rubber in their wake, France was speed-dialing someone on his cell phone. "Seychelles? _Oui, c'est moi_. Meet me outside my hotel in five minutes, bring my special bag. Yes, the long black one. Kiss kiss, _ma chérie_."

"Special bag?" England cocked one eyebrow, pausing in duct-taping Prussia's hands together in the back seat.

"For special occasions," France said cheerfully. He spun into the parking lot of his hotel, slowing down just enough for Seychelles to poke a long black bag through the window and for him to kiss her hand in gratitude. Then he drove over a sidewalk, through shrubbery, blew through two red lights, and drove the wrong way up a highway on-ramp in order to take a 'short-cut'.

When they made it to the building listed on the address, France drove right through the front door. He and England clambered out of the car windows, crawling over shattered glass and crumbled plaster and drywall. "Surprise!" France cried.

Germany, North Italy, Japan, and Russia gawked at them in shock. Behind them, America was strapped to a metal chair, his head lolling between his knees. England took one look and felt sure that America had been tranquilized to keep him so sedate.

Germany stepped forward first. "What have you done to my brother!" he said, pointing to the badly battered Prussia who was flailing in the back seat of his very wrecked BMW.

"What have you done to _mine_?" France asked in return. He unzipped his black bag slowly and deliberately.

Russia began to cackle. "Brave heroes, arriving at the last moment to be saving the day," he said. He clapped, his massive hands slamming into one another thunderously. "It is being like in one of America's Hollywood movies."

"Arthur," France said over his shoulder, "I'll take _Russie_. I trust you can handle the rest."

"I'm on it," England said, rolling up his sleeves.

For the first time, North Italy tried to speak up. "Oh, England, this is not - it's not so bad - it's not personal - I didn't even want -"

"Not personal?" England was aghast. "What could be _more_ personal?"

Russia clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels as France advanced on him. His smirk was all confidence and sadism. "So pitiful," he said, looking at France's long frock coat, his lace cuffs, and the wickedly sharp machete he kept for 'special occasions'.

"Yes," agreed France as he flicked his hair out of his eyes. "Your fate will be very pitiful."

For his size, Russia was freakishly fast, with the sort of explosive speed and power that nightmares are made of. He had centuries of experience. He had few matches for sheer brutality. But for all that, as he flung himself at France, Russia never imagined that France could be just _that_ much faster than him, or that he'd spent the last few centuries preparing to out-think Russia rather than out-fight him. So as Russia's bulk came crashing down on him, France pivoted on his heel and spun out of the way, sending his opponent sprawling to the floor. Russia was already digging in his heels, redirecting his forward momentum, preparing to rip France's head off his shoulders, but once again he underestimated him.

France pounced, cat-like, his right boot smashing between Russia's neck and shoulder, his left pinning Russia's arm to the ground. The machete swung down, and a red arc of blood spurted through the air. Russia stared in amazement as his right hand rolled away. He looked down at the bloody severed stump, the bones and tendons visible.

France vaulted off of him, rolling to his knees a few feet away, machete blood-stained and ready. "I warned you," he said. "The hand you laid on him was forfeit!"

North Italy clung to Germany as England strode towards them and Japan. The dim evening light backlit him, casting a black shadow that seemed to swallow them, a shadow that seemed to sprout dark wings. From somewhere to the side they could hear Russia wail as the reality of losing his hand set in.

"England, this is an outrage-" Germany began, but England cut him off with a stony glare.

"No. _No_. Don't try to talk your way out of this, you bastard. I wish I had buried you in your own rubble like I'd wanted to all those decades ago." England looked up at him, and if he was intimidated by Germany's size, he did not show it. His eyes flickered over to Japan, who regarded him stoically. "And as for you, you snake in the grass, you've just been waiting all these years for a little revenge, haven't you?"

"There will be consequences," Japan warned him.

"Oh, I'm prepared for that," England said, readying his stance, his hands curling into fists. "I was an empire, too. I can take anything the you lot can dish out."

Japan narrowed his eyes, then went to bow. England, not in the least interested in fighting like a gentleman, took the opportunity to dive forward and smash him in the temple with his elbow. Japan staggered, but England pivoted and faced the charging Germany, sweeping his feet out from under him. He planted his foot squarely in Germany's solar plexus, relishing the look of sudden _fear_ he saw on his face, as though for the first time in a long time Germany remembered what a fierce and implaceable foe he made. England drew a small pistol from his coat, and pointed it between Germany's eyes.

"Italy," England barked.

"Ve..." Italy moaned, sinking to his knees, grasping at his hair.

"Unstrap America from that bloody chair," England commanded him, keeping an eye on Japan as he did so. "If you don't, Germany will suffer first, and then Japan." Italy trembled but stumbled forward, undoing America's straps with shaking hands, tears running down his face. America groaned but awoke, looking about with blearly, uncomprehending eyes. Whatever they'd tranq'd him with was wearing off.

Nearby, Russia had made several futile attempts at attacking France, but weakened by blood loss and shock, he had merely careened past France as France side-stepped him and sliced him again and again with his machete. A normal human would've bled out by now. Russia, clutching the bloody stump of his right wrist, was unable to stand. France slid the machete under his chin, lifted his face up, and said, "It's done, Ivan. You're done."

"Alfred," England said, keeping his finger firmly on the trigger of the pistol, "come on, stand up."

America was unsteady on his feet, but stand he did. He was shirtless, but his trousers were still on, and England took the first deep breath he'd had in what felt like hours. They weren't too late. Japan, who had been watching him, took this for a moment of weakness and went for the jugular.

America reached out and grabbed Japan by the arm, wrenching him away from England with that inhuman strength that could bend steel beams and crumble concrete like chalk. The tranquilizers were still in his system; if they hadn't been, he might've ripped Japan's arm off. Instead, America sent Japan sprawling to the ground, screaming.

England took one look at him, and knew that arm would never be the same again. Japan's elbow was twisted at an odd angle, and his clavicle was broken. He guessed that, at least, America had wrenched it out of its socket. Japan writhed, mindless with agony, his teeth chattering as piercing wails clawed their way out of his throat.

"Well," England said drily, "that's not going to be as clean or pretty as the scar you gave China, Kiku."

* * *

Several months later, America invited England and France, as well as Canada and all of his would-be rapists, to a special meeting at the World Conference. It was the first time they'd been in a room all together since the - incident.

North Italy laid his head on the desk and sobbed the entire way through the meeting, while Germany rubbed circles into his back. Prussia sat next to his brother, his permanently crooked nose lending him a rogueish air. Russia refused to sit and lurked in the doorway, glowering darkly, hiding his stump in his coat. England snorted at him and thought, _he'll be putting a hook on it in no time._

Next to England, France was playing with a handful of dice, rolling them between his fingers. England thought again, _but there's a crocodile even if he does_.

Japan walked in and sat down with great dignity, as though even being here was beneath him. His arm, after intense therapy and surgery, didn't look that bad anymore, and England had heard that Japan had been learning to write calligraphy left-handed now. But he'd never wield a katana with the same elegance, nor would he conduct a tea ceremony with effortless grace again. England liked that. He hoped that every time Japan reached for something with his atrophied arm, he thought of that day, and regretted it, and hated himself a little more every time.

"Okay, guys," America said, slamming his hands down on the desk. Canada, standing beside him, kept his gaze on his brother and pointedly refused to look at anyone else. "I asked you here today because I've got something to tell you - and I knew France and England would insist on being here, so I went ahead and invited them."

"America," Germany began, but America glared at him and snapped, "Shut the fuck up, Germany. And listen. My brother Canada put me in therapy, and then me and him have had a lot of heart-to-heart talks about what you tried to do to me. What you would've done if England and France hadn't kicked your asses."

Russia barked a short, evil laugh. France shot him a warning look and held up his hand, five dice caught between his five fingers. The dice were white, and made of human bone. Russia paled, then clenched his teeth and kept quiet.

America went on. "So Canada thinks I ought to forgive you guys. He says its a path to healing. And I gotta admit, it would make me the better man if I could forgive you after what you tried to do."

Italy looked up at him with bloodshot eyes, his face streaked with tears. Germany sat very still. Prussia smirked.

America tapped a finger to his chin. "Y'know, Canada's probably right. I should forgive you. But I won't. Because why should the victim always have to be the one to forgive and forget? If that means I never get to heal all the way, that's okay. I can live with that. So, fuck all of you." He smiled widely. "Anyway, that's all I got to say. Bye!"

He then turned, waved to England and France, and walked out the door, followed by a worried Canada. France and England stood as well, walked out the door, and left the others there all alone.


End file.
